


Always the bridesmaid...

by Angelrat



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Death of a Catholic priest, M/M, implication of child abuse (but not actual)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-23 15:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelrat/pseuds/Angelrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson is tired of being regarded as a drop-kick. He's quite smart really. All he needs is the right incentive.... hee hee</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introducing..... Anderson!

### Introducing... Anderson!

Anderson was fed up. He'd had a bad bad day. You know the kind, you get up in the morning and think, "it's going to be crap..." The alarm went off, time to get up, and Anderson recoiled in horror as his foot landed on a wet sticky pile of ick. Yep, the cat had hawked up a hairball in the night and kindly placed it where his foot usually landed. From there on it only got worse. Anderson thinks now he should have seen the hairball, followed by the empty milk container in the fridge when he went to make his coffee, then the morning paper that landed in his ornamental koi pond YET AGAIN (rotten bloody paper boy, no Christmas bonus for HIM this year), as a warning but no. Ever the optimist (!!), Anderson firmly told himself the day could only get better from here, and he set off to work.

Arriving at New Scotland Yard, Anderson took the lift up to his floor and headed for the coffee-maker in the kitchenette near his office. Coffee should help! But OMFG, what IS it with people and work kitchenettes? Unwashed plates and cups piled near the dishwasher (which was empty), some idiot had used a wet spoon in the sugar then dumped it into the coffee container, no clean teaspoons in the drawer, and a bit of what probably started life as a Sara Lee cheesecake but now looked like a wildlife farm for mould sitting boldly beside Anderson's own personal coffee cup on the shelf above the fridge. Ewwwww! Just NASTY. 

Sighing deeply, Anderson ran his cup under the boiling water from the urn to sterilise it, burning his fingers in the process and dropping the cup into the sink where it shattered a glass that was already in there. Bugger. Picking out the broken glass delicately, Anderson cut one of his burned fingers. OK, this was looking decidedly like a *sign*... time to go BUY coffee! It was not to be, though. On the way out, Lestrade spotted Anderson and called him into his office. 

"A body's been found in an office nearby, get the address off Donovan. It's a man... probably... apparently he's not in very good shape..."

" _Probably_ a man?"

"Bit hard to tell, by all accounts. Found under a Coke machine."

Ewww. Not good. When Anderson and Donovan arrived at the scene, he could see why there was no real certainty as to the gender of the corpse. All that was visible was a lot of blood, the top of the victim's head just showing at one end, and a pair of feet at the other end. The feet were wearing Nike trainers, probably size 7 or 8, and the hair that was visible was light brown, not close cropped but not long either. Still could have been a man or a woman. Anderson took photos and careful notes, then called for the machine to be lifted from the victim.

As the heavy machine was lifted up, the body rose up too, looking like he (or she) was standing up, but then suddenly it separated from the machine with a squelchy tearing sound that turned Anderson's stomach. As it landed, Anderson was surprised by the amount of damage sustained. This guy (or girl) was practically a _pancake _. Sure the machine was heavy, but it looked like it would have had to drop on the victim from some height to squash a human body like a bug. Anderson's mind was working hard as he took more photographs and notes, and started carefully examining the surrounding area for clues as to how this incident happened.__

__"Wallet over here sir!" one of the constables present at the scene called out to Anderson._ _

__He went to pick it up, and Anderson snapped "Oi! Put on a glove first! Evidence, Constable!!!"_ _

__"Oh! Sorry!" The constable blushed, but snapped on a pair of gloves before bringing the wallet over. Anderson used a pencil to open it, hoping to spot some ID. Nope, nothing visible. So he bagged it to be taken back to headquarters for more careful investigation._ _

__Eventually the SOCO had gathered as much evidence as he was likely to find, and was packing his samples away for further analysis. Suddenly there was a disturbance, and raised voices. Oh oh, he knew that deep caramel voice... that is, he knew that annoying loud voice. Sherlock! Hurrying in to the crime scene like a superhero, coat flying dramatically behind him, with his trusty sidekick John trailing along in his wake._ _

__"Just once!" thought Anderson. "Just ONCE I'd like to be left alone to do my job!"_ _

__But no, Sherlock was here to save the day... again._ _

__"Move over Anderson!" Sherlock brushed by him. John glanced apologetically at Anderson, but said nothing. Both men stared at the body, which was still lying in place as they had to get a bigger trolley to take it away on._ _

__"Hmmm.... squashed under a Coke machine?" Sherlock pondered._ _

__Anderson started to say that the damage was too great to be explained by the machine tipping over onto the victim, but Sherlock gave him a withering look and told him to shut up, if he wanted Anderson's opinion he'd have farted._ _

__"Too much damage for a Coke machine... Not enough blood either, if it comes to that. If you've been squashed there should be blood everywhere, not just puddled around the body. So, must have happened somewhere else. Is there a trail of blood? Oh, look, a drop over by the elevator. Mmm. Look at the direction of the spatter, it's pointing TOWARD the Coke machine, not away which you'd expect if it had landed there from over here. So it came from the direction of the lift...."_ _

__A few more observations later, and Sherlock had determined that the victim WAS a man, he'd been killed when a jealous co-worker prised open the faulty lift doors when the lift was upstairs and pushed him into the lift well where he landed on a trolley full of tools at the bottom of the lift well, left there by the maintenance man who'd been fixing the lift. The co-worker had pushed the button for the lift to go down to the basement, squashing the victim between the bottom of the lift and the maintenance trolley. The killer then went down and retrieved the body, using plastic sheeting to load it into the elevator then to place the dead guy on the floor in front of the Coke machine. He pulled out the plastic and tipped the machine onto the already dead guy, making it look like an accident. How did he know it was a man? Well look at the watch, would a lady wear a big chunky watch like that? And it was engraved with his name, see?_ _

__So yeah, once again, Sherlock got the credit. Anderson was highly peeved. He'd done his job properly! He was already convinced that the Coke machine was not the cause of death! He'd PHOTOGRAPHED the blood spatter! He was ON THE RIGHT TRACK!!!! So why? Just.... WHY????_ _

__So Anderson did all that he COULD do in this situation - he finished his paperwork in high dudgeon and went home._ _


	2. Anderson - The Early Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The formative years, or why Anderson always feels "second best"!

Home at last, kitchen stocked with essential supplies (like milk!), a warm meal safely tucked inside his tummy, Anderson plopped down in his comfy recliner armchair with a nice glass of red wine. He flipped the chair back so his feet were up, and he could see the flames dancing in the fireplace. He sighed heavily as his thoughts turned to Sherlock... he of the dark, soft curls and dramatic coat. The icy, penetrating eyes, the cupid bow lips... The ATTITUDE... The... oh dammit, stop thinking of him! Anderson shook his head. Why did he find himself drawn to people like Sherlock? Why did he care what Sherlock thought? Why?.....zzzz...

Anderson was born in the 70s, to a scatterbrained but loving mother and a pleasant but always-at-work father. He was second born, but only by a few minutes - he was preceded by his twin sister Lucy. Anderson's Mum was a huge Beatles fan, naming her two children for Beatles songs... Lucy and Jude. Yep, Anderson's name is actually Jude. He never gave his name a lot of thought, not until he and his sister started high school. Lucy called him over to a group of girls she had quickly struck up a friendship with, and went to introduce her brother to her new friends. 

"Mum named us for Beatles songs!" Lucy prattled cheerfully. "I'm Lucy from Lucy-in-the-sky-with-diamonds", and he's Jude from "Hey Jude!""

"OMG! Isnt Jude a _girls_ name?" one of the girls exclaimed

"NO!" Anderson snapped. He started to explain it was actually a Bible name, and a man's name at that cos the Bible was kind of sexist about including women, but kids in the crowd started singing "Hey Jude" at him and he just about died of embarrassment. 

"Hey Jude!" stuck with Anderson pretty much throughout his school career, his nickname being Judy which annoyed him a lot but the more he tried to defend himself the worse the teasing got so he immersed himself in his studies and let Lucy be the bright shining twin while he got the good grades. He did get good grades, too... good enough to enter Oxford to read Archaeology and Anthropology. He was fascinated with ancient life, particularly dinosaurs, and wanted to work in that field. He would have graduated top of his year, too, except.... Except for Kevin Nguyen, a genius refugee kid who arrived at Anderson's school in the final year, and aced every subject he took. Anderson graduated... second. 

He was kind of annoyed, he couldn't even hate Kevin. Not only had Kevin survived a perilous journey out of Vietnam on an overcrowded boat, but he'd learned English on the way over, and helped his parents establish themselves in their new country. He was always ready to help others and was a genuinely nice, and funny, guy. His classmates loved him. He was also good looking, with thick dark hair and a smooth olive complexion, and deep deep brown eyes you could just drown in... Anderson was kind of bothered by the reaction he had to Kevin, the kind of reaction he was supposed to have with girls. Once in the corridor, Kevin accidentally fell against Anderson in the crush of kids moving from one class to the next. He apologised and moved on, leaving Anderson stunned... no, electrified, by his touch. Literally breathless. Oh wow.

Anderson moved on to Oxford. He loved it there. His studies were interesting, and his sister was training to be a nurse so she was not there with him. Don't take it wrongly, Anderson loved his sister dearly. But she was not known for her tact ("Hey Jude" still rankled with Anderson), and he felt like he was always in her shadow. People loved Lucy, people rarely noticed her brother. At Oxford, Anderson was known as A-squared. Why? When he introduced himself, he simply used Anderson. When asked what his surname was, he still said Anderson... so... Anderson Anderson, or A-squared. People thought his parents were a bit unimaginative, but hey, nothing tease-worthy there! Oh yeah! 

Sadly, Anderson's dreams of being a forensic anthropologist like Kathy Reichs was rudely interrupted. His workaholic father died of a heart attack at the relatively young age of 52, leaving his scatterbrained wife with a (mortgaged) home but no income. She was beside herself with grief, and Anderson and Lucy came home to help. Lucy soon went back to her job as a nurse at the Great Ormond Street hospital, but poor Anderson had to give up his studies to help his mother - besides, there was no money left for him to continue once the house was paid off and the rest of this fathers' money was invested to give his mother an income. So Anderson needed to find work. 

He became a police officer, and did the necessary extra training to become a Scene Of Crime Officer. He proved to be very good at his job. He was painstaking and methodical, not given to flashes of brilliance perhaps, but by carefully working through the evidence Anderson was instrumental in helping to solve several very nasty crimes. 

Around this time, Anderson met Laura. Laura was a sweet girl, polite, not at all skanky like *some* girls Anderson had met in his time. He found her pleasant company and they had many merry times together. Anderson was the perfect gentleman with her, never trying to get too frisky with her, and she appreciated being treated like a lady. Neither found the other's lack of pushing for sex to be remarkable, which was probably kind of odd in hindsight, but perhaps not. Anderson and Laura married in time, everyone seemed to expect it and they did both get on well together. If there were not thunderbolts and lightning in the marriage bed, it was pleasant enough. One day, Laura introduced Anderson to Andrea. Andrea was a pretty, boyish looking girl of Laura's age, with dark hair and dark brown eyes. Laura thought it might be fun to have a threesome. Oh wow! Really? Oh wow! Anderson didn't quite know what to think! 

So there they were, Laura and Andrea and Anderson. Together. In bed. Now you'd reckon most guys would be all like, OMG! Hot girl sex! But all Anderson could think was how much Andrea reminded him of Kevin, and somehow he felt like he was boffing Kevin when he entered Andrea while Laura snuggled from behind, making an Anderson sandwich. Oh dear. Not what he'd expected ... nor did he expect his wife to eventually leave him - for Andrea! Second best again... When people asked about Laura he generally just said she was out of town. He had no real reason to divorce her, he still liked her and his mother spoke of her often. Probably they would divorce in time cos Laura wanted to marry Andrea, but that hadn't happened yet. 

Meanwhile, at work, Anderson met Sally Donovan. He and Sally got on really well. That might have been because they were united in their dislike of one Sherlock Holmes - deductive genius and freak of nature - or maybe the intimacy arose from working together so closely. Either way, Sally fancied a bit of Anderson, and Anderson did not mind providing it! He never questioned himself too closely about the fact that he also regarded her as "one of the boys" and maybe THAT was a part of the attraction too. Or the fact that he often took her from behind... Dark hair... slim body... oh bugger...

Anderson woke with a start to discover he'd spilled his wine in his lap. What a crappy ending to a lousy day. Anderson stalked off to bed.


	3. Anderson makes a bet... with Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson is tired of Mr Smart-Arse Clever Pants Sherlock Holmes swooping in and taking credit for the victory. He makes a bet with Sherlock.

The body was found by the organ lady when she arrived to set up her music for mass later that morning. She liked to arrive at the church early, the solitude made her feel closer to God and she hummed gently to herself as she bustled up to the organ, carrying her sheet music for the hymns she would play. She didn't really need the music by now, she could play from memory, but Father Thomas did like to have an altar boy turning the pages for her, and it was rather sweet to see the little boy attentively following the music so as to be ready to turn the page at the right time. Father Thomas had a very keen flock of altar boys, he had a real gift for engaging the boys in the rituals of the Church, making religion seem alive and interesting for them. 

Once her organ and music were ready to go, Edith approached the altar to pray before the rest of the congregation arrived. She was startled at first, when she saw Father Thomas _lying _on the altar. Then shocked! As she got closer, though, shock turned to horror as she realised there was blood all around him, and he appeared... dead... Poor Edith screamed, and raced outside to find help.__

__The church was quickly established as a crime scene. Anderson was there, along with his team, gathering evidence. Father Thomas was dressed in his robes, lying on his back on the altar. His arms were stretched out to the sides, as if he was on an invisible, horizontal cross. His legs were together, and his feet were bare. There was a bloody patch over his left ear, where his scalp had been cut, but most of the blood seemed to be coming from under his robes. Around the middle of his body. Anderson lifted the robes carefully, to discover that the Father's legs were also bare... and ... looking higher... Anderson recoiled in horror when he realised Father Thomas' penis was missing._ _

__About this time, Sherlock arrived in a swirl of dramatic coat tails and the ever-faithful John following along. While annoyed, Anderson had to admit (quietly, inside himself) that the man certainly knew how to make an entrance. Sherlock had already spoken to Edith and was here to help. Er, deduce. Um, to solve the crime. Anderson opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock blew him off with a "go away" kind of gesture that people use on smelly unknown dogs that try to follow them._ _

__"Priest, on an altar, in a Catholic Church. Dead. Penis missing. Altar boys... mmm... Arranged in a crucifixion position, but horizontal. Killer not strong enough to manage an upright crucifixion? There's a big cross over there, not used... Maybe a woman. Head injury? Blood spatter on this bronze cross, look. Bashed unconscious then. Easier to remove the penis of an unconscious man. Loads of blood. Bled out, then, causing death. Body's neatly arranged, so yeah, woman. A mother. Of an abused altar boy? Taking revenge? Not unknown for Catholic priests to have *extracurricular* activities for their altar boys, and the organ lady said that Father Thomas has a very close relationship with his altar boys. Lestrade? I'd suggest interviewing the altar boys' mothers, you'll be looking for a youngish, fit mother who's strong enough to arrange an unconscious man on an altar."_ _

__"Are you sure, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "Father Thomas is very well loved."_ _

__"Well of course he is! No altar boy is going to be susceptible to a creepy unpleasant man! And besides..." Sherlock rattled off a few more awesome sounding deductions which made it seem likely that his deduction was correct._ _

__Anderson was packing up. Evidence had been bagged and tagged, and the body had been taken to the morgue for the post-mortem. No sign had been found of the missing penis, which was somewhat troubling. Sherlock had gone looking for it too, with no luck. He came back into the church to be met by an irate Anderson._ _

__Anderson practically pounced on Sherlock, grasping his forearm and manhandling him backward until Sherlock bumped up against the wall._ _

__"Holmes, I have had enough! You're always coming in, rattling off some deductions, and bugger me dead, you're usually right. Lestrade thinks you're the bees knees, I know, but I am totally fed up with you always getting the credit when I work my arse off doing the hard work. I am not stupid, Sherlock! I am not a dimwit! I did not get my job by being the dullest lightbulb in the chandelier! AND ... and listen closely! - I. Think. You. Are. WRONG!"_ _

__The two men were almost nose-to-nose at this stage. Anderson looked across at Sherlock, panting slightly, red in the face and totally furious. Sherlock glared back at him, icy blue eyes meeting darker blue in a death stare. Anderson felt a frisson of fear? Excitement? The feeling seemed to nestle in his groin, tightening his balls and oh good grief, sending electric shock waves through his body. It occurred to him that he would only have to move forward another centimetre or two to be kissing Sherlock..._ _

__"I'm NOT wrong" Sherlock growled in a low tone._ _

__"Oh yes you bloody well are! I'll PROVE it! I'll use SCIENCE! Evidence! None of your arty-farty theories. You'll see, you're not psychic, you don't know everything about everything! No-one does!"_ _

__"Oh really? Do you have another explanation of the facts?"_ _

__"Not yet... " Anderson sighed in frustration. He just had a feeling. A strong one, but a feeling nonetheless. The revenge-seeking mother seemed too... pat. Too much of a cliche._ _

__"Hmmm." Sherlock was dismissive. Anderson FELT dismissed. It annoyed him even more._ _

__"I am so sure you're wrong, I'll make a BET with you! If you are right and I am wrong, I will quit. I'll go work on an archaelogical dig somewhere, or, or, something!"_ _

__Sherlock turned back and studied the irate SOCO. Interesting! _Could_ Sherlock be wrong? He supposed in some alternate universe it could be possible. Maybe. Perhaps. _ _

__"I shall accept your bet, then" drawled Sherlock. "And in the unlikely event that I am wrong, I will give you... hmmm.... One perfect night. Yep, one perfect night."_ _

__Anderson's jaw dropped. He hadn't really expected Sherlock to accept his bet, never mind offer such an ambiguous "prize" if he lost._ _

__"Do close your mouth, you'll catch flies!" Sherlock shot a last contemptuous glare at Anderson, and strode off in a flurry of swirling coat and bouncing curls. Anderson really wished he didn't keep noticing Sherlock's dramatic exits._ _


	4. Anderson is on the job...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evidence comes in, theories are tested, imaginations imagine...

One perfect night! Anderson’s mind was reeling with possibilities. A perfect night… with Sherlock? Would that even be possible? 

_oooh, yeah_ , whispered a little voice in Anderson’s head

Anderson brushed that thought aside, good heavens, the man is insufferable, why would anyone WANT to spend time with him on purpose? Except John, perhaps, but he’s an adrenaline junkie so that doesn’t count.

_because he’s hot!_

Well obviously… oh, hang on, no… Anderson exhaled sharply and turned his mind to the reports that were starting to arrive on his desk. 

Time of death had been established as somewhere around 8-10pm the previous night. Toxicology reported a blood alcohol reading of 0.04, nothing remarkable there, probably a glass of wine (or two) with his dinner. No other drugs, prescribed or otherwise and no sign of poisoning. 

There were fingerprints found around the scene, most belonging to Father Thomas, and several smaller prints that were probably from the altar boys. The boys would have to be printed to eliminate them, which was a bit of a headache since the oldest was only twelve so they’d need parental permission, and some parents got a bit weird about that sort of thing. There was also a nice bloody fingerprint found on the brass cross, not belonging to Father Thomas but not yet matched to anyone on file.

Speaking of the cross, there was evidence of two different blood types on it. Mostly Father Thomas’ of course, but a few drops of another person’s blood too. Could well have been the killer’s blood, it had been sent for DNA testing. So far all that was established was that it was Type A. The DNA testing would be back later.

The post mortem report, when it arrived, was rather disturbing. Cause of death was attributed to exsanguination (from the removal of the penis) but Father Thomas may have died anyway as the cross fractured his skull and caused subdural bleeding. The penis was discovered fully inserted into Father Thomas’ rectum, glans first. It seemed to have been inserted using the kind of speculum usually used to examine a woman vaginally. The penis was removed using a sharp instrument; there were a few hesitation cuts then two or three solid cuts to remove the organ. The instrument could have been a scalpel.

Other evidence included fine gravel on the carpet near the altar that was not consistent with the pebbles or dirt outside the church, a single hair measuring 28 cm in length, dyed black with 8mm of brown regrowth at the root end, some pink fibres that could have come from a wool coat or maybe a scarf, and a small torn and crumpled bit of paper with the words “suck my dick!” written on it in rather messy pencilled handwriting. The paper had obviously been torn from a larger bit. Further investigation on the grounds of the church turned up several other torn scraps of paper, when they were assembled it seemed that a couple of the altar boys were simply writing each other silly notes, just like in school. Charming!

So… mmm… suspect? Not obvious at this stage. The pink fibres and the long hair were consistent with Sherlock’s theory, and in a gruesome kind of way so was the penis inserted into the rectum. It seemed like a suitable kind of revenge for a pederast. Anderson mentally cringed at the imagery. So yes, it COULD have been a mother getting revenge for an abused son.

However, everyone interviewed so far said that Father Thomas was loved by all. He was a man’s man, loved his footy and cricket and was not averse to having a few beers with his mates at the pub on match nights. At 42, he was still attractive enough to be eye candy for the ladies but not to the point of inspiring hopeless infatuations (at least, no-one reported anything like that), and always acted as the perfect gentleman anyway so the ladies liked his manners. He was well liked by the children in his congregation. There was something about him that made it possible for him to make his religion seem relevant today, a real gift that not many of the clergy seem to share.

The only possible negative anyone mentioned was that Father Thomas was very strict on the rules in the Bible. He did not see them in shades of grey, but simply black and white. You did what the Bible said, or you were doing it wrong. Mostly this caused no real waves, after all Father Thomas approved heartily of Jesus’ teachings in the New Testament regarding not judging others (that’s God’s job) and forgiveness (we can and should do that, it’s in the Bible!) and love. But this did mean he was very much against homosexuality. As far as he was concerned, the Bible said “no” so that was it. If you batted for the other team, you should learn to change sides. This last was reported by a sad-eyed young man – and even he didn’t dislike Father Thomas. “No point in hating the messenger” was how he put it. Anderson privately hoped he wasn’t permanently damaged.

*****  
Meanwhile, Lestrade and Sally had been interviewing the mothers of the altar boys. Mums and boys were of all shapes and sizes and temperaments. All the mothers reported being happy to let their sons spend time with Father Thomas, not one had any hesitation about their sons being alone with him – not that they ever were anyway, Father Thomas was a stickler for propriety and rarely saw boys alone; the only time it could happen was when a lad arrived early, and others arrived shortly after anyway.

Sherlock became interested when Lestrade’s interviews turned up a mother-and-son pair that could fit his theory. Mum owned a pink coat-and-hat set, and had long black hair. Lestrade didn’t notice if it was dyed but Sally assured him it had been. Girls notice stuff like that. She was a paramedic, around five-eight in height and rather broad across the shoulders, 35 years old. Her son was 11, quiet and withdrawn. His mother said his grades were slipping at school, and he had stopped seeing most of his friends. She didn’t know why he was sad, but it was obvious she cared deeply about her son. She was divorced, but Dad was still around, still cared for the boy, and was on reasonably good terms with her, so that shouldn’t have been an issue.

“Well there you go then!” exclaimed Sherlock. “The lad’s been molested, tells Mum, Mum’s strong and fit, goes and confronts Father Thomas, whacks him with the cross, lays him on the altar, cuts off his penis (John and Lestrade both cringe at Sherlock’s matter-of-fact description of the destruction of Father Thomas’ man parts), and stuffs it up his rectum via a speculum. Revenge for Junior, with the added benefit of preventing him from ever doing it again.”

“Well maybe, Sherlock, but there is other evidence to consider. Plus she has an alibi.”

“Pfft, if you want to call it that. The fundraiser venue is only a block away from the church. Plus, with that many people present, no-one could be sure she was there the whole time. Let me go and chat with her.”

“Oh, fine. John?” Lestrade focussed on John. “Make sure he doesn’t do any harm. Please. Remember, the boy’s only 11. Don’t let Sherlock bully him. Don’t even let Sherlock TALK to him without his mother’s express permission. And presence.”

Sherlock looked injured. His face seemed to radiate a “who me, bully a kid?” aura of innocence. John nodded at Lestrade, and left with Sherlock.

*****

"Well, that could have gone worse!" Sherlock reflected as he and John arrived home.

"Could have gone worse!" John exploded. "Just exactly how could it have gone _worse_???? Just don't even talk to me. Just. No. Not talking!"

John was horrified. Sherlock's questioning of young Sam was actually quite gentle, for Sherlock, although he was not so kind with Sam's mother. First he dazzled (!!) her with his deductive powers, accusing her of having an affair with a co-worker (true, but it was love, not just "an affair") who was married (not true, they were separated (she hoped.... oh cr@p, what if?)), noted her failing out of medical school before becoming a paramedic (true: remarkably enough, she'd fainted once too often in her surgery rotation and was asked to "seriously consider whether medicine was the best field for her"), and mentioned - in Sam's hearing - that she had not been married when Sam was conceived. How embarrassment. Although Sam himself seemed unfazed by this little bombshell, Sandy still remembered the pain and humiliation she suffered when her mother found out she "had" to get married.

But worse was to come. Sam's behaviour and failure at school _did_ seem symptomatic of a child who was being abused but didn't want to tell. So Sherlock was kind of hammering this line with Sandy when eventually Sam burst out crying. 

"Stop, stop!" he wailed. "Please don't go on at Mummy! Please! Nobody touched me! But I have something really really wrong and I am so scared and I couldn't tell Mummy and I don't want to die and I'm really really *scared*!!!!"

John eventually calmed him down, and found that the "something wrong" was "down there". With Sandy's permission, John examined Sam and discovered that the really really bad thing was almost certainly a testicular cyst. Poor Sam was convinced he was deformed, and when it started to hurt he was too embarrassed to talk to his Mum about it. So he'd been worrying all alone for some weeks now. Sandy reassured him, and Sherlock looked quite surprised at all the emotion unfolding around him. 

"Hmmm. NOT a killer Mum then" Sherlock muttered as they left, earning death stares from John and Sandy. John wanted to die of embarrassment!

Back home, Sherlock laid down on the floor with his feet on the sofa - to get the blood to his brain so he could think more efficiently. John went to bed.

*****

Meanwhile, back at Anderson's place, Anderson was deep in thought too. Semi-reclined, in front of his fire, gazing into the flames, thinking about the perfect night...


	5. Anderson has quite an imagination!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigations are still ongoing. But Anderson can dream! And... he does!

Anderson was fascinated by the model Tyrannosaurus Rex. It was animated, life sized, and apparently possessed of a motion sensor, as it kept growling at people passing by. It reached out with its little forearms, terrifying little kids and amusing their parents. There was even a clutch of dino-eggs, with one that kept hatching at regular intervals. Adorable. 

"Cleverly done, isn't it? a deep, slightly husky baritone whispered in his ear.

Anderson whipped around, to see Sherlock practically on top of him, gazing intently into his eyes. He felt like alarm bells were going off inside his chest, as his own eyes widened and his heartbeat sped up. A gentle flush coloured his cheeks as he realised, Sherlock was in the perfect position to kiss him. Oh wow! Oh, please! Anderson leaned forward just a tad, bringing their faces closer, noses only a hair's breadth apart. He could smell Sherlock's cologne, slightly musky, just perfect for him. He breathed deeply. Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the right, closing the gap between them and dusting a light kiss on Anderson's lips. Anderson felt an electric jolt right through his body, trembling, reaching, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist and shoulders, cupping the back of his head in his hand, running his fingers through Sherlock's silky curls, as Sherlock opened his mouth to allow Anderson's tongue entry...

Oh no, hang on, that's not right... Nope, stop the fantasy! Yes, dinosaurs and Sherlock make for an interesting mix but come on, who would start making out in a dinosaur exhibition, surrounded by people. Lots of them. With children. That's just plain weird! 

OK, re-run...

Galvin at Windows. Restaurant with a spectacular view. Posh food, quite delicious. Looking out over the lights of London, it's a beautiful city viewed from up here. Anderson is feeling quite comfy, he's savouring his cognac as Sherlock ....

NO, hang on, this one's worse! Sure, Sherlock is HOT AS, but it's not easy to imagine actually conversing over dinner with him, even if the view is awesome and the food delightful. No, sorry, this one's not the perfect night either. *sigh* Anderson stares moodily into the flames of his fire, watching them dance is quite hypnotic really. Almost as good as watching fish in a tank, and no chance of finding the flames swimming upside down in the tank... oh dear, probably too much wine and not enough sleep, that made no sense at all. He wonders how Sherlock can promise "one perfect night" if Anderson himself doesn't know what that would be? Hmmmm....zzzzz.......

... Walking home, Anderson just wants to get inside, out of the wind and rain. He's got an umbrella but it's not much help, the rain seems to be flying sideways, and he's rapidly getting soaked. He's walking briskly, head down, focussed on the uneven footpath, when suddenly he's snatched from behind. Strong hands grasp both his arms, and pull them roughly behind his body. He tries to turn around, to face his assailant, but he's being gripped too tightly and he cannot move much at all. He kicks backwards, making contact with the assailant's legs, but failing to loosen the iron grip. He feels a prick as a needle jabs into his upper arm, making him struggle harder but then suddenly everything is black and cotton-wooly and then nothing.

He wakes up. His head aches like the morning after the night before. He has no idea where he is, it's rather dark and he sees nothing to give him any clues. It's comfortable where he is, soft underneath and his head seems to have a pillow under it. Anderson tries to move, to sit up, but finds he is tied down. He groans. 

There is movement nearby. He can't see what it is, just feels a difference in the air, a slight scent of musk wafts by his nose. 

"You're awake!" A whisper in the dark. The owner of the voice moves within his range of sight. Anderson groans again, and tries to move his arms and legs. Yep, definitely restrained. Something soft but strong is attached to his wrists and ankles, holding them gently but very firmly in place. With the light behind him, Anderson can only see a silhouette of his captor, coming ever closer, and leaning forward toward him. 

"Who are you? Let me go!" Anderson was annoyed to hear the whiny tone in his voice, he was aiming for "manly and assertive" but only achieving "frightened teenage boy having a testi-pop".

"Oh, Anderson, can't you tell? I am so disappointed! Well, here is a hint!"

Anderson felt hands at his waist, unbuckling his belt. Then undoing his trousers, and lowering them along with his boxers, exposing his cock, which had inexplicably sprung to attention. Then he felt moist heat, as his captor's mouth descended over the glans, tongue swiping around it before taking it into his mouth. There was a hand cupping his balls, and another at the base of his cock, gripping as the mysterious mouth gradually took more and more of Anderson's cock inside. The hand on his balls massaged them gently, almost lovingly, as the mouth moved up and down, taking him in then almost releasing him, before swooping down again. The hand on his cock moved up and down too, in time with the mouth. Again the mouth almost released him, only the glans remained inside, the tongue teased, licked, probed the slit and released it and slid down his length again, then Anderson felt fingers from the lower hand probing his arse, teasing around the opening, then back to the balls again. Anderson was hard, harder than he'd ever been, he felt like he could explode. His climax built rapidly, and suddenly he was pulsing, vibrating, pumping. The mouth swallowed eagerly, and Anderson practically fainted, he'd never come so fast or hard in his life! Oh wow, oh fuck, oh, oh .... SHERLOCK!!!!

Anderson woke abruptly, realising he'd come inside his pants like a teenager. Ohhhhhh....... blech. Messy. 

Time for a shower and off to bed. Tomorrow, there should be results from the DNA testing, and who knows? Maybe a match on the DNA or the fingerprint. Anderson sure did hope so, anyway!


	6. And the winner is....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looks like SOMEONE solved the crime! Who will it be? Will Anderson have to go on a dig in Outer Mongolia? Or will Sherlock have to provide a perfect night for Anderson? Read on and find out!

Anderson and Lestrade were watching some CCTV footage retrieved from a camera near the church where Father Thomas had been found. 

"Look, sir, just here!" Matt from IT pointed to the screen. What looked like a woman could be seen scurrying across the street just down from the church. The time on the camera said 21:35, on the evening of the murder. 

"Look at her carefully, she's got what could be a blood stain on her jacket, look, near the hem". Matt paused the footage, and used his laser pointer to show the dark stain on the otherwise pale-coloured jacket.

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, not totally of course, but she's the only one who looked even a bit unusual. And she has long dark hair, and her jacket is light coloured. It _could_ be pink, like the fibres Anderson found. Most people near the church were in formal clothes, going to the Save the Orphans fundraiser just over... there...(pointing the laser to show where he meant). "Otherwise the street was pretty much deserted, actually. Couple of kids on bikes, a cat, that's about it really."

"Mmm. Well, she certainly looks like she's on a mission, were you able to see where she went?"

"Yep, right here, on this next tape. Look, see, she's getting into this car here." A dark coloured mini could be seen on the screen. The woman got in, and drove off toward the city. 

"Oh, stop, stop, go back a bit... yep, there, right there. Can you enhance the number plate?"

"It's a bit obscured by the angle. Let's see... " focussing, the plate came partly into view. Ummm.... something, something, 05 LD...K, I think, could be an R? no, pretty sure it's K ... can't quite make out the first two letters though, they're too shaded."

"Not bad though, Matt, thanks for that. Look for dark coloured minis registered in 2005, see if you can get a name and address for this woman."

"On it, Sir, no worries". Matt gathered his equipment and left the room, leaving Anderson and Lestrade to discuss this latest possible lead. Anderson felt a bit peeved that Sherlock seemed to be right about a woman, but his innate caution didn't let him get too bogged down. Plus his optimism... oops, mind on the job please!

"What else have you found, Anderson?"

"Still waiting on the DNA report. The unidentified print was sent off for cross matching but no hits so far. Of course, it could still be in someone's in-tray, they're always busy over in fingerprinting. Otherwise, nothing new. I put the PM report on your desk, nothing new to add to what we already heard yesterday."

"Right, well let me know when you do hear. Sherlock has been chasing leads, he hasn't found any more viable suspects yet either. He's still convinced it's a woman. The CCTV footage does support his theory, but then, that woman could have been there for any number of reasons and we don't know that it was blood on her jacket. Could have been dirt."

"True". Anderson went back to his office to see what else was up for investigation today. SOCOs were kept very busy!

*****

More reports. Sorting, sorting. Reports in folders. Oh, here's what Anderson was looking for, DNA report on the blood taken from the cross. Mostly Father Thomas' of course, but another distinct sample belonging to a man. It went into details of markers and sequencing, but there were no matches on file. More sorting, then, fingerprints. 

Read, read. Read, read. OH! Bingo!

A match was found, belonging to one Joshua Grayson, he'd been wrongfully arrested as it turned out, but his prints were on file and the print on the cross was an excellent match. There was an address provided, too. According to the report, Grayson was 27 years old, five feet ten tall, medium build, brown hair, brown eyes. Anderson picked up the DNA and fingerprint reports and took them to Lestrade. 

"Thank you, Anderson! Give this to Sally, have her see if she can find young Mr Grayson."

Just then, Matt from IT came in with a list of possible matches on the number plate of the car the mysterious woman got into. Lestrade scanned the list, starting with London registrations. He let out a low whistle as he found Grayson, Jessica... with an address on the other side of London. Coincidence?

*****

Sally took a constable with her to investigate Joshua Grayson. His last known address was a flat in a suburb not far from Father Thomas' church. However, when they knocked on the door, they were greeted by a harassed-looking young mother, with a toddler on her hip and a little girl hanging onto her skirt. 

"Nope, no-one here by that name. I've been here three years now, he must have moved away. You could ask Mrs Ayres downstairs, she's been here forever, maybe she'd know?" 

Sally thanked her, and went downstairs. Mrs Ayres was a comfy-looking middle-aged lady with a cat who gave Sally a glance before stalking off, showing disdain as only a cat can. Sally rolled her eyes, and asked Mrs Ayres if she knew where Joshua Grayson might have gone.

"Oooh!" Mrs Ayres exclaimed. "Oooh, that was so mysterious! I remember Josh, nice kid, always said hello, Tiddles liked him" (Tiddles was a good judge of personality, according to Mrs Ayres. Sally thought Tiddles could go bite himself...)

"What was mysterious?" Sally prodded.

"Oh, yes, well, Josh just disappeared! It was really strange! He was here one day, then the next he was gone! All his stuff went, too, it was like he'd packed up in the night and just *pfft!* gone!"

"Did anyone report him as missing?"

"Well, no, not really... I got a postcard from him a week later, from Thailand. Nasty place, Thailand. Full of pervert businessmen and food to give you the runs, couldn't pay me to go there... But anyway, that shows he wasnt really _missing_ missing, just, not here"

"He never came back then?"

"Well, no. No, he didnt. He was such a nice young man. Tiddles liked him! Would you like a cup of tea, dear?"

"No, thank you Mrs Ayres, you've been most helpful. Thank you, g'bye."

"Well, bye dear, glad I could help."

Sally and her colleague returned to the Yard.

*****

Meanwhile, Lestrade and another DS had gone to check out Jessica Grayson. She turned out to be a pleasant-looking young woman, tall, with black hair. She worked as a nurse-practitioner in a family planning clinic near her home. She had been employed there for a year or so, and loved her job. 

Jessica had no real alibi for the night Father Thomas was killed. People don't really, do they, when they live alone? Nobody sits around thinking, now I must make careful notes of my movements just in case I need an alibi for something. She told the police officers she had probably just been home, it's what she did most nights. Came home, had dinner, watched telly for a bit, or read a book, something to wind down a bit after a busy day at work. Oh, yeah, it was a Saturday. But even so. Let's see...she did her grocery shopping in the morning, did her laundry at lunchtime while she read 11.22.63 by Stephen King (she remembered that because she had been meaning to buy it for AGES and finally got a copy and started reading it and couldn't put it down) and in the afternoon played tennis with some friends and then, well, home, dinner, Stephen King, wine... No, there was no-one to corroborate her evidence. You could ask Felix, the hamster, but he was the shy silent type... 

"Did anyone borrow your car, then?" asked Lestrade

"No, it was home too. In the garage."

"It's just, a car like yours was seen in the street near the church."

"LIKE mine, but couldn't have been mine. Mine was home. With me."

Jessica seemed perplexed rather than worried or guilty. There were a few more questions, but nothing helpful came out of the interview. Lestrade took his leave, and went back to the Yard.

*****

When Lestrade arrived back, Anderson met him on the way to his office. 

"Oh, Sir, you've got a couple of long hairs on your jacket - what have you been up to?" he teased.

"Nothing Anderson, don't be silly!" Lestrade snapped.

"Hang on though, Sir, they're black, look" Anderson gathered them off Lestrade's jacket and held them up. "And look here, near the root, regrowth. BROWN regrowth. I wonder..."

Lestrade looked interested. It sounded like the hair that had been found at the church. Anderson took off to the lab, to compare them.

"See this, Sir?" Anderson was peering down a microscope at the two hair samples. They looked the same as each other. Lestrade took a look too, and agreed. 

"This one's 27.5cm long, and the other is 28.2. Consistent with the one from the crime scene. I'll send these off for testing, see if we can get a definite match with the other hair. 

"Well done, Anderson! Looks like Ms Grayson knows more than she's telling us. Get those results, and we'll bring her in for more questioning!"

*****

So they did. The hairs were a match. Jessica Grayson was brought in for questioning. In the end, she confessed. She had killed Father Thomas, cut off his penis, and stuffed it up his arse. She used instruments from her medical bag that she carried about with her to do this "operation". 

But why? And what did Joshua Grayson have to do with it?

Well, she had BEEN Joshua Grayson. A lifetime ago. She was born male, raised Catholic. Father Thomas was her parish priest. As Joshua, she fell in love with another man. They were so in love, they wanted to marry, or at least have a civil partnership. The only thing was, Father Thomas made it obvious he did not approve. He was convinced young Joshua would go to Hell if he continued his sinful relationship, and he hoped Joshua would see the error of his ways. 

Joshua was devastated. His religion meant a lot to him. But so did Jeremy. Torn, Joshua came up with what seemed like a foolproof plan. He would have surgery to become a woman. Then he would be in a heterosexual relationship so God would approve, surely?

It didn't work out like that though. Jeremy was horrified when Joshua came back from overseas as Jessica. He was devastated, actually. He loved Joshua as a man, wanted him to be a man. If he'd wanted a woman he'd have gone out with one. So no, it was over. 

Poor Jessica was left with no-one. She tried to start up a new life, and mostly succeeded, but she'd lost all confidence in herself. It really came to a head when she met a man who she started to fall in love with. The feeling was mutual, and they became very close. Eventually, she confessed that she had been born male, thinking their love would be enough to make things OK. It wasn't. He became very angry, said some awful things to her, and left. 

Highly distressed, Jessica went to see Father Thomas. It was all his fault. If he hadn't been so ... so.... fundamentalist? condemnatory? judgemental? she wouldn't have had the surgery and she wouldn't have ruined her life. He tried to calm her but she totally lost the plot and bashed him with the cross. She went to her car and got her medical kit. Father Thomas was still unconscious as she dragged him up onto the altar, cut off his penis, and stuffed it up his arse. 

"There, how do you like being changed?" she cried as she smoothed his robes down. 

She was pretty sure he was dead when she left him, he never regained consciousness while she was there, even when she cut him. 

*****

So there it was. Thanks to Anderson's methodical research and observational skills, he solved the case. Sherlock had obviously been on the right track saying it was a woman, and even relating it to abuse was not too far off. But Anderson identified the perpetrator, and had the evidence to back it up. Sherlock owed Anderson a perfect night!


End file.
